


on the line

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: When Stiles's holiday break wraps up and he's heading back to Berkeley, perhaps it's blasphemy to be so relieved to leave his dad and Scott and home behind, but—Well, okay, there are mitigating circumstances.





	on the line

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Venivincere for the marvelous idea, cheerleading and betaing! Thanks also to Dorian for also betaing and helping make this so much better.

When Stiles's holiday break wraps up and he's heading back to Berkeley, perhaps it's blasphemy to be so relieved to leave his dad and Scott and home behind, but—

Well, okay, there are mitigating circumstances.

Like his shame. So much shame. All the shame.

Stiles has an entire two-hour train ride back to Berkeley to reflect upon his misery and reclaim his crumbling pride. 

He should be driving back to campus in his baby, but unfortunately the ominous clunking from the engine reached critical mass during the break, and Stiles’s one true love died on Acorn Street. She’s currently in the shop in Beacon Hills. Who knows when he’ll see her again, or how the hell he’s going to pay for the repairs.

The train has just departed from Beacon Hills and his overstuffed duffel bag is squished into the overhead bin. He’s got a bottle of Dr Pepper, his new headphones—a gift from Scott and Melissa—and _Eats, Shoots and Leaves_.

He tries to lose himself in the music, in his book, but he’s sweating too profusely. His gray t-shirt sticks to him in all the wrong ways. He jostles his red hoodie off and crumbles it in his lap, resting his elbows on top of it as he buries his head in his hands and sighs.

The Event just won’t leave his mind. The Event, courtesy of one Derek Hale.

It’s no secret to Stiles that he’s had a massive hardon for Derek for years and years. Even when Derek went off to find himself, or climb Mount Everest shirtless, or whatever soul-searching werewolves did while Stiles went off to Berkeley. Even when all that was exchanged between them were a few drunken _how-are-you-dude_ texts (from Stiles) and a few pictures (courtesy of Derek), Stiles’s alone time had still featured Derek as the headliner. 

A year ago, Derek had returned to settle back in Beacon Hills, and he seemed somewhat, well, _chiller_. At least for Derek. 

They texted a bit more, and Stiles saw him regularly along with Scott and, on occasion, Lydia, when they were home for holidays and breaks. 

This break was no exception. 

Stiles takes a sip of Dr Pepper and stares out the window, watching the evergreen trees and rolling hills sweep by. 

_Don’t mind me_ , he thinks at the spiteful universe, _I’m just reliving the worst of my humiliation_ : swooning (metaphorically!) at Derek’s Christmas party, every wolf’s nose swiveling toward him and wrinkling in unison. He’s turning the corner on brooding and heading towards pity party, when his phone buzzes from where it’s gripped loosely in his hand. He jumps at the distraction and stills when the display on his iPhone tells him it’s Derek. _Calling_. Derek never calls. He texts. 

Stiles is tempted not to answer as the emotions from the whole debacle play over and over in his mind. But since Derek calls so rarely, he thinks, God-fucking-damn, and answers. 

He picks up with a “’Sup?” He keeps his voice to a low tone so as not to disturb the passengers around him, while also trying to sound cool and like nothing is wrong, nope, no sir.

“Stiles,” Derek says. His voice alone brings a rush of heat to Stiles’ cheeks.

“Derek,” Stiles says on autopilot, and presses a palm to his forehead.

“You—” Derek starts and then clears his throat. “You ran out of here before we could talk.”

Stiles bites his lip against a ripple of embarrassed laughter that escapes nonetheless. He really does bury his face in his palm now. “Man, what else was there to talk about?” 

Stiles recalls the moment when his usual self-restraint failed, while he was watching Derek do nothing more than pull more wine glasses from a top shelf in the kitchen. The wide stretch of his shoulders caused a wave of arousal so fierce and all-consuming that he was nearly knocked off his feet. He was accustomed to the low simmering pull at the base of his stomach that was there whenever he was with Derek. But that casual reach up made the ridiculous yearning he’d kept tamped down inside of him crack open; for that crazy moment all that he could think of was being shoved against the wall with those selfsame shoulders under his palms, while Derek pinned him against the wall and fucked into him strong and good. 

“Stiles.” It was a sigh, and so annoyed that Stiles’s mouth twitched at the familiarity. “We both know—everyone knows.”

Stiles’s whole face heats and he sighs. Time to try to save himself from his misbehaving dick—even if his misbehaving heart is a long lost cause. I mean, come on, _Derek_ —was so torn up by life and so far out of Stiles’s league it was insane. Stiles could just not go down this Lydia route again, even though he knew it was already much too late.

“Look, man. It’s been a bit of a dry spell. I’m sorry for assaulting your senses like that,” Stiles says. “I mean, dude, you’ve seen yourself.”

Derek coughs a bit. “Stiles,” he says. “You’ve seen yourself, too.”

Stiles blinks. Pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at the name on the screen. He puts his phone back to his ear, opens and closes his mouth a few times and comes up with, “I look like a too-skinny, rabid squirrel.”

Derek gives a surprised laugh that sinks warm and low into Stiles’s gut. “You have no idea, do you?”

Stiles swallows. “I don’t know what that has to do with anything. Like I said—” he waves his hands around even though Derek can’t see. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t control it.”

“Mm, “ Derek agrees. “I’m tired of trying to control it.”

Stiles has lost the plot of this conversation. His body feels lighter than air and heavier than a cannonball. He asks, almost a whisper, “Control what?” His fingers are white-knuckling the hoodie in his lap.

“Control the impulse to shove you against a wall and shut you up,” Derek says, his voice lower than Stiles has ever heard and his mouth goes dry.

“Just to confirm, you mean because I’m so annoying you want to shut me up?” The silence stretches. Derek doesn’t answer. “I mean, that’s our thing, right? To the degree we have a thing.” _Oh God, stop talking_ , he pleads with himself. 

“Let’s call that a bonus,” Derek sounds amused as he says, “to getting you pressed against me, underneath me.”

“I—what?” Stiles knows he’s bright red and feels an insanely optimistic erection growing rapidly underneath his hoodie. “But you’re straight.”

“No,” Derek says.

“Um.” Stiles bites his lip, unsure what to do with this information. “You hate me.”

“No.”

“You’re extremely hot and would never look twice at me?”

“I’ve looked at you hundreds of times.”

Stiles gulps. He looks around the train. No-one nearby is paying him an ounce of attention. In a small voice, he says, “I’ve had a pathetic crush on you for over five years and you would’ve done something by now if that was true.”

“I never let myself,” Derek says. “First you were too young, then you were dating that asshole, and you’re away at school. So I tried to stop. To let this go.” A slow breath comes across the phone line that sends chills down Stiles’s spine. “But I can’t.”

_This can’t be real_ , Stiles thinks. _I’m having a fucking daydream or a meltdown_. The train whips past the tangle of green scenery. 

“You mean—”

“Are you still on the train?” Derek asks, and Stiles doesn’t even know how Derek knew about the Jeep being in the shop or that he’d be stuck with the train. 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, feeling he’s just been shoved off a cliff and now he’s stuck in midair, waiting for the ground to rush up and break him.

“Then you can listen,” Derek says, his voice lowering again and turning rough. Stiles shivers. “I smelled you,” Derek says, and Stiles closes his eyes in his humiliation and arousal. “I always smell you, but this time…” His voice trails off, like he’s mulling it over. “It was for me. I knew it. You wanted me.”

There’s no use in denying it. “Yes.”

Derek hums like he’s agreeing, like he’s pleased, like he wanted that answer. “How long, Stiles?”

Stiles gulps. “I already told you. Years.”

Again, Derek hums. “You can’t imagine.” There’s some background noise, a rustling that sets Stiles’s nerves alight with the possibility of what it is, or what could happen. “What you smell like. You smelled open. Hungry. Like you needed me to take you.”

Stiles groans in his throat, uncaring who’s around. “Derek—”

“I bet you were hard. I could smell your come, so you must have been leaking already. I could’ve pulled you into my bedroom and pushed you down on my bed and taken what’s mine.”

Stiles can’t help it—he pants. His cock feels like it’s going to explode, throbbing. He’s too aware of the damp patch on his underwear, and he sneaks a hand under his hoodie, squeezing his dick like one of the perverts on the train that his mom used to warn him about.

“I imagined taking you on the kitchen counter,” Derek continues, and then there’s the _slap-slap-slap_ sound of Derek jerking off furiously. “I’d let everyone watch.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles moans, low, biting his lip against further noise as his hand dips under his hoodie and his loose khakis into his underwear His dick is hot and hard in his palm.

“Are you touching yourself?” Derek asks. 

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, fingers circling his cock and jerking, uncaring who sees, who hears. 

“Fuck,” Derek says and the sounds of skin on skin get louder. “I want you to jerk yourself off with your pretty, long fingers.”

“Yeah—yeah,” Stiles groans, wrist working faster and faster as pleasure builds as the base of his spine. He dips a finger against the wet slit of the head.

“You’re going to come,” Derek says. “Because of me. Anyone can—“ he gasps “—can hear you, know you’re mine. Oh fuck, oh fuck—“ Derek groans, obviously near the edge. “You’re mine _fuck_ —you’re mine—”

Stiles groans in the back of his throat as he comes, low and long, even as he bites his lip to try to be quiet and he can’t; he can’t stop any of this. He’s always been too loud and he moans his way through a staggering orgasm. His khakis are creamed and he’s still thrusting up into his tight, damp fingers to chase the pleasure he hears from Derek groaning on the other end of the phone, louder than Stiles ever dreamed.

With pleasure still making the muscles in his thighs jump and quiver all down to his toes, he breathes out, “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. A pause. “Did you just come on the train from a few strokes?”

Stiles’s face is so hot, from coming that hard, from embarrassment, but he barks out a laugh. “Shut up.”

“That’s so… fuck. _Stiles_.”

Stiles bites his lip again, which stings from biting into it a little too roughly, unsure what to say after coming on public transportation to the sound of Derek’s voice telling him things he never thought possible.

Derek clears his throat. “I want to come see you this week. If you have a night that’s free. I want to take you out.”

“Like—on a date?” Stiles says, disbelievingly.

Stiles can almost hear Derek’s eyes rolling. “Yes, on a _date_. Text me when you’re free.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, still short of breath and sweaty and smiling wide enough to know he looks insane.

“Enjoy the rest of your ride,” Derek says, amusement curling around his voice as he hangs up, leaving Stiles staring at his phone and sitting in a mess of his own come.

“Asshole,” Stiles groans, throwing his phone down into the seat beside him. But the smile sticks.


End file.
